


The Scars We Cannot Heal

by letmetemptyou19



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Language, Mutual Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Wings, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetemptyou19/pseuds/letmetemptyou19
Summary: "I’m not Beelzebub, Crowley. You shouldn’t have to endure the pain in private or pretend it isn’t there. Please, let me care for you,” Aziraphale pleaded, sinking down to sit on the floor next to the sofa. He tentatively removed the demon’s glasses and looked at him meaningfully. Crowley was surprised to see Aziraphale’s own eyes sparkling with tears as well. “I want to take care of you.”Crowley pushed himself up into a sitting position and grit his teeth as he his kicked off his shoes. Aziraphale blinked at him.“Well, go ahead. Take care of me.”-----In which Aziraphale takes care of Crowley after his feet are burned in the Church/Blitz Scene. Crowley's wounds are not the only scars to be confronted in the soft light of the bookshop. Lots of angst and ineffable pining.





	The Scars We Cannot Heal

**Author's Note:**

> EDITED NOV 6 2019 BECAUSE I HAD A REALLY CUTE IDEA AFTER I ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED. Hopefully people like it but I wanted to be transparent about adding to the story (will clarify in comments if anyone asks)!
> 
> Please note that there are a few vague descriptions of burn wounds/scars and one blood mention in this fic. Nothing super graphic or anything but if you have any triggers related to burn wounds please use your best judgement. Thanks, and please leave a review if you liked it! :)

_“Lift home?”_

The words echoed in Aziraphale’s ears as if they were coming from miles away, travelling through a thick fog to meet him. For thousands of years now, Aziraphale had considered Crowley a useful ally and possibly even a friend. However, Crowley was still a demon, his wily Adversary, and Aziraphale had always kept him at an arm’s length, never convinced that the demon could be fully trusted. Any rare heroic endeavor of Crowley’s was to be treated as an exploit of self-interest and nothing more. But here, in the wreckage that now resembled a house of God only by the loosest of definitions, Crowley had saved more than just the Principality’s life. Aziraphale had spent years, _centuries _collecting and preserving the rare prophecy books which he’d unwittingly sacrificed tonight, and Crowley had protected them from the massive explosion without a second thought. There was no ulterior motive, no mischievous ruse to conveniently explain away Crowley’s actions. He had committed an act of kindness, of the purest sort, and Aziraphale was struggling to contain the waves of affection pouring off of him. Perhaps Crowley didn’t love him, but he _had_ committed an unadulterated act of love – something that Aziraphale, until this very moment, hadn’t thought possible for a demon.

“Angel?” Crowley paused near the door. Aziraphale realized that he still hadn’t moved from his place near the altar (well, where the altar had been moments prior) and followed the demon in a stupor, still clutching the smooth leather satchel tightly. It wasn’t until the cold night air flooded his lungs that he began to come back down to earth, as it were. Aziraphale turned to check for cars before crossing the street only to realize that not a soul would be driving through the area for several weeks at least. All around him, London’s greatest structures now lay at his feet in ruins. He felt rather foolish as he turned to look at Crowley, praying that the demon hadn’t noticed. Crowley coughed and scowled, stepping out into the road without a second glance, but Aziraphale swore he had seen the tiniest smile. He followed the demon and watched as his hips swayed ridiculously in the moonlight. Crowley’s shoulders rolled back theatrically with each step and Aziraphale was reminded of a slinking leopard stalking its prey. Had Aziraphale not been such a dedicated Principality, he might have even found it rather sexy. Not that he would ever tell Crowley that.

Crowley swung open the passenger door of the Bentley. Aziraphale removed the fedora from his head and slid into the seat with a grateful nod. As Crowley shut the door and made his way to the driver’s side, the angel felt his heart beat faster still.

“New car?”

“Mmm... D’you like it?”

“Yes, it’s... very you, Crowley.”

“Still in Soho?”

“Yes. The bookshop. Do you need the address?”

“No, I remember it.” Crowley turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared awake. They rode in silence as Crowley sped through the streets that weren’t littered with rubble from the raid. The odd brick here and there flew miraculously out of the Bentley’s path as they tore through the city. When they were almost to the bookshop, Crowley hung a sharp left onto a side street only to be instantly met with a towering wall of debris. He slammed on the brakes with full force and a pained cry escaped his throat involuntarily.

“What? What’s the matter?”

Crowley cursed himself under his breath. He’d been doing so well.

“Nothing, angel.”

Aziraphale stared at him with a confused expression before a look of understanding and mild horror passed over his face.

“Oh, Crowley, your feet! I should’ve known.”

“ ‘s fine,” Crowley said dismissively but with a firmness that suggested Aziraphale not push it, and the angel decided that he would not test his luck any further for the time being. Crowley swung back out onto the main road and after several minutes of loud shouting concerning the state of London’s infrastructure – none of which was provided by Aziraphale, and all of which had been Crowley’s attempt to discreetly relieve some of his pain via colorful vocabulary – they arrived at the bookshop.

“Well, angel, here’s where I leave you. Enjoy your evening. You’ve lived to see another day.” Crowley waited for the angel to exit the Bentley but Aziraphale didn’t move. _Get out of the fucking car, angel, _Crowley thought to himself, biting his tongue to avoid grimacing. Aziraphale scoffed.

“Crowley, don’t be ridiculous. You’re coming inside. I absolutely refuse to let you leave with your feet in such a condition.”

“My feet are fine,” Crowley hissed. He could feel the blisters on his soles adhering themselves to his black socks. He winced as he gingerly oriented himself back towards the wheel.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale prodded, “at least come in for a glass of wine. I’ve got a bottle of pinot noir with your name on it, and I think we could both use a drink after all that.” He flashed Crowley a tempting smile and after a moment of deliberation, the demon sighed, accepting defeat.

“... Fine,” Crowley grumbled. Looking rather pleased with himself, Aziraphale exited the car and ascended the stairs.

“After you,” Aziraphale gestured as he swung open the door to the shop.

Crowley had hardly taken two steps inside when he heard the bag of books clatter to the ground behind him. Before he could turn around, two chubby arms wrapped around his midsection and pinned his arms tightly to his sides. Aziraphale was much stronger than he looked, and while he did not condone the abuse of one’s physical strength, it did come in handy when you needed to overpower a demon who was practically begging for a nasty infection. The two struggled for a moment, grunts and howls peppering the air as Crowley tried to break free. He thrashed wildly in the angel’s arms and Aziraphale toppled back onto the sofa, refusing to relinquish his hold on the demon.

“You leave me no choice, Crowley! I absolutely forbid you to leave this shop without properly addressing your wounds!”

“Lemme go! Alright, I’ll stay, just let me go!” After a moment of hesitation, Aziraphale loosened his grip, only to tighten it again promptly as Crowley attempted to spring up in a mad dash for the door.

_“Crowley!”_

“Alright, alright, _FINE_,” the demon shouted, flipping over face-down onto the sofa. His feet _did _hurt after all, and he had already expended most of his energy earlier in the evening. After a moment, Aziraphale realized he was still holding onto the limp demon (and now probably suffocating him as he lay across his back) and stood up. He gave a little huff and straightened his tie.

“Now, I didn’t want to do that Crowley. I apologize for my brutish behavior. But you _must _let me tend to your injuries. You don’t want to neglect those burns and –“

“ – Doo fimpf ze foompf kerof by – “

“Crowley, I can’t possibly understand you when you have your face buried in a cushion.” Crowley turned his face towards Aziraphale without looking at him.

“I said, you think they took care of my burns when I Fell? Do you think Beelzebub was there with open arms, ready to catch me? You think Hastur brought me bandages and an aspirin? Tell me angel,” Crowley spat at him, “do all of your lot think Hell lets you have a nice lie down after you Fall from Grace? I _know_ how to take care of myself. I don’t need some pompous angel acting as if I haven’t done it for the last six millennia!”

Crowley cursed his voice for breaking at the end. His eyes begin to water behind the dark sunglasses askew on his face as he thought of those first moments thousands of years ago. It had started with his wings. It always started with the wings. A feather falling here, a feather there. It had only taken two days for his Descent to begin. As he plummeted into the depths of darkness, the only source of light guiding him downwards had been the crackling fire that ate up the plush white wings extending from his back; the only sound filling his ears was the deafening _whoosh _of flames engulfing his beautiful plumage. He blinked hard and opened his eyes to see Aziraphale staring back in stunned silence before turning his gaze to the floor, looking rather ashamed of himself.

“I’m sure that must’ve been very difficult for you. And you’re right, I’m sorry that I acted as if you hadn’t... but I’m not Beelzebub, Crowley. You shouldn’t have to endure the pain in private or pretend it isn’t there. Please, let me care for you,” Aziraphale pleaded, sinking down to sit on the floor next to the sofa. He tentatively removed the demon’s glasses and looked at him meaningfully. Crowley was surprised to see Aziraphale’s own eyes sparkling with tears as well.

“I want to take care of you.”

Crowley had to admit that he was a little shocked when Aziraphale appeared so remorseful. In the past, the angel had regularly jumped at any chance to remind Crowley that he was on the side of evil, the side Aziraphale detested. This time, when the demon reminded him that he was an unforgivable being, Aziraphale had just looked... well, pitiful. Crowley pushed himself up into a sitting position and grit his teeth as he his kicked off his shoes. Aziraphale blinked at him.

“Well, go ahead. Take care of me.”

Aziraphale nodded and wiped his eyes as he stood and walked into the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with a large washbasin and matching pitcher, a roll of gauze, a bar of soap, and two towels – a small washcloth and one that was slightly larger. The angel sat them on the ground and hurried back to the kitchen. When he emerged the second time, he held a rocks glass in one hand and a large bottle of single malt scotch in the other. Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“No wine, then?”

“I thought you might want something stronger for the pain. I can fetch the wine instead, if you like. Or I have aspirin, if you prefer it –“

“No, scotch is fine. Scotch is brilliant.” Aziraphale smiled as he handed Crowley the glass and poured a generous amount of scotch. Crowley chuckled, handed the glass back to the angel and reached for the bottle, taking a long pull from it. When he finally withdrew the bottle from his lips with a _pop, _he grinned at the amused angel.

“Better?”

“Loads.” Crowley leaned back into the sofa, examining the room properly for the first time since he had arrived. Aziraphale sat the glass of scotch on the table and removed his perfectly maintained jacket before moving away from Crowley.

“I know I’ve got a medical book somewhere that has instructions for burn wounds, I’m just not... sure exactly... ah, here it is,” Aziraphale said, plucking a large and very dusty book from one of the shelves. He blew off a significant layer of dust and sat the book down on the table.

“You’ve redecorated.”

“Hmm? Oh,” Aziraphale said, carefully pulling off his waistcoat with one hand while the other fumbled at his bow tie. Crowley hadn’t seen him so casual since Rome. Disheveled, even. It was a refreshing view for the demon. Aziraphale threw the stripped articles of clothing onto an armchair behind him and undid the top button of his shirt. Crowley swallowed hard as he watched the angel roll up his shirtsleeves attentively. “Yes, well, that was decades ago. Though if I remember correctly,” he said, lowering down onto his knees once more, “I did invite you to come visit shortly after.” Aziraphale laid the book on the floor before him and fingered through the index before flipping to the section on second-degree burns, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he skimmed the page. He licked his lips nervously before cautiously lifting Crowley’s left leg by the ankle. “I’m afraid this is going to hurt.”

“I know. Get on with it,” Crowley nodded. “And I was still a bit sour after our last meeting, you know. I’d honestly thought you might- _ooh, ack,_ _OW!”_

“Sorry,” Aziraphale whimpered, peeling Crowley’s sock off his foot as gingerly as he possibly could. “Oh, Crowley, these blisters are positively _terrible. _I can’t believe you did this to yourself just to save me from a few Nazis.” Crowley gnashed his teeth as he writhed on the sofa. _I would’ve set my entire body on fire if it meant saving you, _he thought, but all that came out was a pained “Ngk.” Aziraphale shushed him as he gently leaned him back into the seat. “Don’t worry about talking to me anymore, just drink your scotch. Relax.”

“No, really, ‘Ziraphale, I’m – “

“Crowley,” Aziraphale soothed, “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Oh,” Crowley mumbled weakly. “Sorry.”

“Quite alright, dear. Now brace yourself, please,” Aziraphale urged as he lifted Crowley’s other ankle.

Crowley bit his tongue to keep from screaming. His right foot had been burned much worse than the other. Aziraphale let out a tiny gasp as he removed the sock, his voice full of worry and affection.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Crowley closed his eyes tightly as he leaned his head back and took another long pull of scotch. The pain receded a little bit more. He heard glass scrape against wood as Aziraphale picked up his own scotch and took a large gulp, inhaling sharply as the alcohol burned a lingering trail down his throat. Crowley felt the angel lift his feet carefully into the basin and let out a moan of relief as Aziraphale slowly poured crisp, cool water up to his ankles. The angel picked up the glass of scotch and plopped down into the armchair across from him.

“You just sit there for a little while. I’m drawing the heat out before I – sorry, you know this.”

“I just wish I’d known to do that when my wings were scorched.” Aziraphale choked on his scotch and sputtered incredulously.

“W-what, you... surely, you don’t... scorched?”

“Mm, yes.”

“You never told me about that.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley shrugged, taking another drink of the scotch, “ ’s not really what you’d call a happy mem’ry, now is it?”

“No, I should think not. But... Crowley, your wings are beautiful. I remember them from Eden.”

“Oh, I’d regrown them by that point. They always grow back, but it’s quite excruciating. ‘Course, I couldn’t really do anything back then except wait.” Crowley looked pensively at the bottle in his hands. “I still have the scars, you know...” He trailed off, staring pensively into space. After a moment, he looked at Aziraphale. “You never want to Fall, angel,” he said sadly. “Every opportunity for happiness, for hope, for love is just ripped out right from under you. All because I was a bit too curious.”

“I don’t know, Crowley, I mean... your curiosity, your imagination, they’re a part of you, angel or not. You were unhappy, and Heaven is no place to catch yourself unhappy. Do you really think you could find fulfillment in a world that would never let you acknowledge your true feelings?”

“Do you?”

Crowley regretted the question as soon as he’d said it. Aziraphale looked as if he’d been punched in the gut.

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered. “ ‘m drunk –“

“I’m perfectly happy with my choices, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley decided not to push the matter any further. Aziraphale’s eyes glazed over wistfully as he stared through Crowley. Crowley stared back. After a moment, Aziraphale shook his head and let out a deep sigh.

“Right, er, should be ready to wash now. Might want to hold onto that scotch.” Crowley nodded and took another swig, still examining the somber angel. Aziraphale lifted the empty pitcher and carried it into the kitchen. Crowley waited alone for several minutes. Just when he was thinking maybe he should call out to the angel, Aziraphale returned clutching a full pitcher of water. Aziraphale averted his gaze, but Crowley could see that his eyes were swollen and red from crying.

“Aziraphale, I’m really sor–“

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale blurted out, shaking his head emphatically as he plastered on a hollow smile. “It never happened.”

Crowley hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Aziraphale sat down on the floor, spread the larger towel onto the ground next to him and lathered a bit of soap into the washcloth. He dipped it into the water as he drew Crowley’s right foot out of the basin.

The significance of an angel washing the feet of a demon was not lost on Aziraphale. He had heard the story on several occasions over the course of history, how Jesus had shown the ultimate sign of love and respect for his disciples on the night of the last supper. He had done so, Gabriel had boasted a number of times, even with the knowledge that one of them would betray him. Prior to tonight, Aziraphale had constantly wondered whether Crowley would betray him one day, too. He had betrayed Heaven, after all. Then again, Crowley had insisted from the beginning that all he ever did was ask too many questions. It didn’t matter now. Perhaps someday Crowley would betray him, but he’d been Aziraphale’s selfless savior tonight. More importantly, he was Aziraphale’s closest, oldest and only friend on Earth.

The significance was not lost on Crowley, either. He had been there when Judas had accepted the silver. Hell hadn’t given him the full story; all they told _him _was be at the High Priests’ temple at such-and-such time and date to plant the seed of temptation. If he had known what was going to transpire... he tried not to think about that now as he stared down at the divine being before him. The angel gingerly placed the washcloth against his heel. Crowley howled and pulled back sharply in surprise, but Aziraphale held the demon’s leg fast.

“Please, dear, it really must be cleaned,” Aziraphale pleaded encouragingly. When Aziraphale dabbed gently at his sole again, Crowley could practically hear the blisters pop. He pulled back harder this time, and though Crowley was sure Aziraphale could’ve kept him in place, he allowed the demon to retreat.

“Can’t you just miracle it... unburnt or whatever? You’re an angel!”

“Crowley, I can’t just... well... actually...” Aziraphale folded the towel from the floor over Crowley’s foot and gently dried them before sliding the washbasin out of the way. In a state of total concentration, Aziraphale slowly ran his hand over the bottom of the demon’s foot. Crowley watched with bated breath as the bloodied welts that had covered his feet disappeared. In fact, Crowley hadn’t seen his skin so soft and smooth in a very, very long time. A self-satisfied angel beamed at him.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale breathed. Crowley nodded. Aziraphale lowered Crowley’s foot and raised the left one, performing the miracle over again.

When he was finished, he grabbed Crowley’s knee for support as he lifted himself off the floor, then removed the most of the items (except for the scotch, of course) to the kitchen. Crowley continued to sip from the bottle, absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the glass as he waited. A few moments later, Aziraphale returned with a fresh pair of socks and handed them to Crowley, who scowled.

"Is everything you own tartan?"

"Tartan is stylish," Aziraphale said, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he returned the dusty book to its shelf. Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically and leaned over to slip the socks onto his feet, cradling the bottle of whiskey between his legs as he did so. This position complicated things, and it took him a couple of tries to get the sock around his foot. Aziraphale stifled a laugh, amused by the way Crowley was contorting himself, as if the liquor was going to make a run for it if left unattended.

"Anything's better than putting those back on, I guess," Crowley said with a nod to the oozing black socks balled up on the floor next to his shoes. He vanished the socks with a snap of his fingers and settled back into the sofa.

"You can keep them."

"Don't imagine I'll ever wear 'em again," Crowley said. This was incorrect. In the coming years he would wear them a handful of times, though never out of the flat, and never to Aziraphale's knowledge.

"Well, still. Consider them yours."

Aziraphale picked up his glass and plopped down into the armchair across from Crowley. He held out an exquisitely manicured hand towards the demon. Looking very confused, Crowley reached out his own hand and took Aziraphale’s, who giggled.

“That’s very sweet, dear, but I was actually asking for the scotch.”

“Oh,” Crowley said in horror as he snatched his hand away, realizing he was still clutching the bottle of liquor tightly in his lap. “Well, you never know with you, angel! Always... bein’... ‘ffectionate ‘n all that...” They passed the bottle between them and Crowley took another long pull and leaned his head over the back of the sofa. Aziraphale took a generous sip of his scotch.

“ ‘M drunk.”

“I can tell. Feet feel better?”

“Yeah. S’pose I should say thank you.”

“Probably best if you don’t. Besides, it was the least I could do. You saved my life. Or, at least, saved me from a very inconvenient discorporation.”

“Yeah, well... I was in the area,” Crowley mumbled dismissively to his new tartan socks. Aziraphale smiled. A comfortable silence filled the room.

“You know, I’d be perfectly willing to examine your back as well. The scars, I mean. If you’d like.”

“They’re scars of damnation, angel. You can’t undo that kind of damage.”

“Would you like me to try?”

“It won’t work, angel.”

“That’s not what I asked, Crowley.”

“Er...” Crowley looked at the man across from him, the soft light of the bookshop glowing around him, enhancing the ethereal presence in Aziraphale. He had never seen the angel with a hair out of place, always concerned with his refined appearance – but here, with his curls damp from sweat and his rumpled shirt, sleeves hiked up around his elbows, Crowley thought he’d never looked more beautiful. He searched the angel’s blue-green eyes and saw nothing but affection pouring out of them.

“Only if you want to.”

“I want to.” Aziraphale drained his glass and transferred himself to the sofa, setting right to work on the buttons of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley sat stiffly at attention, barely breathing. “You can relax, dear.”

“You’re not uncomfortable...?”

“I’m an angel, Crowley, not a prude,” Aziraphale teased. “I was in Eden too, you know.” Crowley nodded and leaned back, feeling rather foolish. And a bit flushed. Aziraphale unfastened the rest of the buttons and slowly guided the sleeves down Crowley’s arms, allowing his hands to linger a bit longer than necessary on Crowley’s biceps. He wasn’t a prude, but he surely wasn’t accustomed to seeing Crowley’s bare chest, either. His eyes traced the sinewy figure of the demon, taking in the stretch of his muscles, the way his ribs were just barely visible under his pectorals. Crowley cleared his throat and shed the fabric pooling around his wrists before twisting his torso so that he was facing towards the door. Aziraphale gasped at the enormous pink scars stretching vertically across the demon’s back. The scars were millennia old, yet appeared to be in only slightly better condition than the fresh burns he’d just healed. Crowley flinched as Aziraphale absentmindedly traced one of the scars with his index finger.

“Are they tender?”

“No.” Aziraphale swallowed hard and placed a flat palm against one of the scars, willing it to heal itself. He slid the hand all the way down, lingering where the scar had puckered around the undamaged skin moments before. He smiled at his work and repeated the motion on the other scar. Crowley let out a deep breath, anxiety flowing off of him.

“There,” Aziraphale said, his hand still resting on the small of Crowley’s back. “All better.” He stood and retrieved Crowley’s shirt from the floor, tossing it to him. Crowley slipped it on and buttoned it deftly as Aziraphale returned to the sofa and poured himself another glass of scotch.

“Aziraphale...”

“Mm?”

“Why do you care for me so?” Aziraphale fought a deep sigh. _Because you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, _the angel thought to himself. _Because you’re all that I have, all that I’ve ever had, and all that I’ll ever want. Because you care for me. Because you deserve it. Because I love you, Crowley. Because I have feelings of love for you. _

“I’m an angel, Crowley. It’s in my nature to care for the needy.”

“But not for a demon.”

“Of course, even for demons,” Aziraphale said dismissively with a tight feeling in his chest. Aziraphale swore he saw Crowley’s face fall ever so slightly.

_I can never tell him. They’d destroy him. Fancy an angel, in love with a demon. Heaven and Hell would have a field day._

“Ah. Well, still. I appreciate it, angel.”

“Crowley... why do you insist on calling me that?”

“What? Oh, ‘angel’?”

“Yes. Certainly, you are aware that it’s a human compliment. One that couples use when they’re... fond of one another. Don’t you worry that people will... get the wrong idea about our... Arrangement?” Crowley leaned back in consideration.

“I’m aware of the implication, Aziraphale. But I don’t think it’s an inaccurate description,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Does it bother you?”

“No, I... I find it rather lovely, actually.”

“Y’know, I definitely shouldn’t be telling you this, but I _am_ fond of you, Aziraphale. Deeply fond of you. You’re a good person, and a good friend.” Aziraphale could feel himself blushing as he grinned at Crowley, his eyes darting between the glass of scotch he held in his lap and the demon smirking back at him.

“Yes, well... jolly good,” he squeaked at Crowley, beaming. The both drank from their respective vessel full of scotch, their eyes locked on one another. Crowley pulled off the bottle and wiped his mouth as he leaned back comfortably on the sofa for the first time that night, properly sprawling out. He draped his arm along the back of the couch and kicked a leg up onto the cushion. His eyes continued to probe Aziraphale, practically devouring him. He had a bad habit of staring which often made people uncomfortable, and it was one of his favorite things about himself. He eyed the plump angel hungrily; Aziraphale, however, did not seem at all uneasy. Quite the opposite, in fact. He stared back, his eyes dark with something that Crowley had never seen in them before. Was that... _lust_? Suddenly, Crowley felt very on display.

“It’s late,” Aziraphale breathed, breaking the silence that hung between them for several minutes. “Do you want to – I mean, do you need to stay?” Crowley felt his heart jump in his chest. _I would stay with you for the rest of time, if you let me. _

“Nah, I’ll sober up. Hint taken.”

“No, Crowley, it’s not that I don’t want you to stay – I mean... I just w– “

“Angel, ’s fine. ’S not a good idea. I know.” Crowley stood up and concentrated hard for a few moments as the alcohol left his bloodstream. “Spending the night with a demon only leads to trouble.” Crowley winked. Aziraphale gulped.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Crowley picked up his trench coat and threw it over his shoulders before placing his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. He swept his fedora up off of the floor, nodded at Aziraphale, and placed it back on top of his head as he headed towards the door.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale blurted out with no idea where he was going with the exclamation. Crowley turned, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Hopefully, even.

“Thank you for letting me take care of you this evening. I hope you feel better.” Crowley smiled softly.

“No, Aziraphale, thank you. Been a long time since anyone’s shown me such... _grace,” _he said meaningfully.

“Always a pleasure. Except when it’s not,” Aziraphale added with a playful wink.

“Until next time, angel.”

“And thank you again, for the books.”

“Don’t mention it, angel.”

Crowley tipped his hat to Aziraphale and pulled the door closed behind him. Aziraphale smiled to himself. He knew it would be a while until he saw the demon again. Perhaps decades. He stood and wobbled for a moment as he got his bearings; he hadn’t realized until Crowley sobered up that the bottle of scotch was completely empty. He was feeling rather lightheaded and a warmth buzzed behind his stomach. He flopped down onto the couch face first and decided not to sober up. He’d berate himself for the bedroom eyes tomorrow. When he finally dozed off that night – something he had only done a few times in all of his years on Earth – he found himself dreaming of that defining moment, when Crowley presented him with tangible evidence of years and years and years of love.


End file.
